


If lost, please return to Top.

by CatLovePower



Category: The Brave (TV 2017)
Genre: Concussions, Episode Tag, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Rescue, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 09:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13385025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatLovePower/pseuds/CatLovePower
Summary: Sort of tag to episode 7; there is an explosion at the market, and Amir gets separated from the team.





	If lost, please return to Top.

“What’s your name?” he hears.  
  
He’s not fully awake yet, because he doesn’t know what to answer right away. He groans and hopes it’s only a rhetorical question, the kind you ask someone with a concussion. He must have one, seeing that his skull feels like it could split open any second.    
  
“ _Comment vous vous appelez?_ ” the voice insists, and he suddenly realizes it wasn’t English he heard, but rather French. He tries to remember, but nothing comes up.  
  
They must have drugged him because he knows he should be panicking right now, but he just feels cold and vaguely annoyed at his own brain.  
  
He groans again and tries to open his eyes. He can feel a hand brush his cheek; he has a beard. There is a cannula blowing air in his nose, and it itches. Other tubes creep into him and he tries not to think about it. He lets the slow, rhythmical beeping of machinery prove he is still alive, despite feeling airy and empty.  
  
“ _Savez-vous où vous êtes?_ ” the voice asks again.  
  
Hands check the tubing tapped to his left hand. The right one is swaddled in bandages, and he didn’t even notice.  
  
A nurse, his addled mind supplies. So… probably a hospital. Remembering the French word for that is easy, but pushing it past his dry lips proves harder.  
  
The nurse smiles and presents him with a glass of water, and he thinks she may be an angel in disguise. He closes his eyes and falls asleep again.  
  
*  
  
When he comes to, the room is silent, and he’s mostly free from tubing, apart from the IV still in his hand. There is no one in sight. No card on the night stand. He’s not sure he should be expecting any.   He tries to touch his face, assess where it hurts, but his hands are both useless for now. So he lets his head fall back on the pillow and tries to remember.  
  
“Some kind of explosion”, is the best he can come to after a moment. A mission, a team, a kid… nothing but fragments. Names and faces still elude him, but he’s pretty sure it has something to do with ISIS, and he doesn’t like it. So what if he is the bad guy and just doesn’t remember?  
  
His head still feels swollen. Not a surprise, if he was caught in an explosion, like he suspects. He just hopes he wasn’t the one building the bomb.  
  
Despite the quiet and the dim lights, he feels in danger, all of a sudden. Not remembering his own identity means he won’t be able to talk to the police, or to know which side everyone is on. Because they’ll come, sooner or later, he can feel it. It’s even stronger than a memory, something buried deep in his scrambled brain; find the team, regroup, proceed to the extraction point.  
  
With some trouble, he manages to get the railing down on one side of the bed. The floor is cold under his naked feet, and he gets a head rush when he bends over to retrieve what must be his personal belongings in the night stand. There is a wallet, but no ID. He finds some cash in euros, and a crumpled note in Arabic with an address. He makes a mental note that he can read Arabic way better than he can understand French.  
  
He needs some clothes. Shoes. And a way out. He needs to check that they didn’t assign a guard outside the room. Who’s ‘they’ is another question for later.  
  
Nobody thought about locking the door leading to the next room, which is unoccupied. He shuffles unsteadily, in the darkness. Night has fallen, and it’s raining again outside. Another useless memory here, but he remembers rain, lots of it.  
  
There is, surprisingly, nobody outside his door, which means they probably didn’t figure out who he was. He is both relieved and a bit annoyed that he is still a John Doe, or… How do they call unknown patients in France?  
  
*  
  
Running away sounded like the best course of action while he was still lying down on a hospital bed with good drugs flowing in his system. But now? he is not so sure anymore. He had to walk close to the wall for a while, afraid he would pass out in the corridor. Everything aches, and his left hand is still bleeding from where he pulled out the catheter. He should have been more careful, he thinks, grabbing a roll of bandages from a tray.  
  
Some sort of training seems to kick in, however, because he manages to stay upright and look like he knows where he’s going – he doesn’t. There isn’t a lot of activity at night, but one stops him, which is a relief. He’s sure people would soon come looking for him, he just doesn’t know if they’ll be friends or foes, and he’s not taking any chances.  
  
He finally finds what he was looking for, a door marked “ _privé_ ”, which means private. The room is deserted, and he sneaks in without switching on the lights. Some lockers are unlocked, so he grabs a pair of sweatpants and a (hopefully) clean T-shirt. He has to sit down to get dressed, and he feels like he has been beaten black and blue. Shoes are easy to find, but when he’s done getting dressed, he is sweating bullets and feeling woozy once again. He thinks he might have a broken ribs or two.  
  
There are jackets on a coat rack by the door, and even some umbrellas. He grabs one of each and hopes he doesn’t look too suspicious. For some reason, he’s glad he hasn’t seen his reflection in a mirror yet. As if seeing his face would jolt his memory and bring back his real identity; maybe he wouldn’t like the answer.  
  
*  
  
It’s a miracle that he manages to get to the front entrance without getting stopped or passing out. There are many people in the hall, despite the late hour; nurses on the phone, people coughing and doors swooshing open and close. The noise of the rain outside makes him shudder, and he grips the handle of his umbrella somewhat uncertainly.  
  
He must have looked lost, because a woman starts talking to him from behind the front desk. It takes him a moment to understand what she is saying. The ambient noise and the multiple conversations around him makes her sound like she’s underwater. Or maybe it’s another side effect of his concussion.  
  
He frowns and concentrates, recognizes the word “taxi” even though the accent is different. He shakes his head – and regrets it immediately. He tries to smile, grits his teeth, and says, “ _Non, merci._ ” He’s glad she looks the other way and lets him on his way, because it’s about all he could manage right now. His brain feels muddled and slow.  
  
*  
  
The cold and the rain are more than welcome, as it turns out. It jolts him awake and forces him to walk faster. As fast as he can manage with shaky legs and pain in his side.  
  
He is starting to regret declining that taxi now, and as he looks around in an unfamiliar street, he collides with a man. The apology that crosses his lips is in Arabic, and he winces internally, but the man doesn’t seem to take notice. He doesn’t move and looks down at him, too close for comfort. He seems menacing, all of a sudden, but his sandy hair and beard look familiar somehow.  
  
It takes less than a second; flight or fight instincts, and he chooses the first one, or at least tries to. He turns around in his borrowed shoes, nearly slips and lets go of the umbrella. There is a hand on his shoulder, and all he can think is, “They found me.” So he fights; he swings blindly and hears the tall man swear, as his fist connects with his face.  
  
The man lets go, so he starts running. He doesn’t go far, though. A black SUV pulls up, tires screeching, and the door opens. Before he even realizes what’s happening, the tall man grabs him by the neck, twists his arm behind his back and pushes him inside the car. And then they’re driving away.  
  
*  
  
“What the fuck is wrong with him?” the driver asks.  
  
American accent, he notes, from where he lays in the backseat. There is a knee painfully digging into his back, and his face is pressed into the upholstery. It hurts. He tells them so, muffled and unsure of his own accent. The pressure lessens slightly, but the tall man doesn’t let go of him.  
  
“Just drive, Preach,” the man says with a sigh. “Tell McG we’re coming back.”  
  
“Already done. He didn’t sound happy.”  
  
“I can imagine...”  
  
Even though he can’t see their faces right now, he knows that if they’re using their names in front of him, it can mean two things: they’re on his side, or they’re going to kill him.  
  
*  
  
They don’t drive very long, but by the time the car stops, he’s sweating again and feeling worse for wear. He planned on attacking and running away as soon as the door opened, but the grip on his arm and neck doesn’t abate, and he’s frogmarched into what looks like a re-purposed warehouse.  
  
Once again, if they let him see all that, it doesn’t look good for him. He can’t see anything bomb related lying around, but there are laptops and weapons. They do look military somehow. And American.  
  
The tall one pushes him down on a battered couch, and he tries to fight it, but gravity and exhaustion end up wining.  
  
“Stay there.”  
  
He doesn’t like orders, apparently, because he starts to fidget almost immediately. Another unhelpful snippet of information about himself, it seems.  
  
The medic of the band appears and puts a bag of supplies on the couch beside him. He throws a sideways glance at it, trying to see if anything could be used as a weapon. The tall one moves closer, as if he could read his mind.  
  
“You’re muttering, and you’re not really subtle,” the medic explains with a weary smile.  
  
Then he shines a light into his eyes and makes his headache explode. It takes everything for him not to throw up right now, right there on this unknown guy. He screws his eyes shut and begrudgingly lets apt hands poke and prod everything that hurts.  
  
He doesn’t even realize how dangerous it was to let his guard down like that, until he feels the prick of a needle in his biceps. More drugs, great, he thinks, before letting the couch swallow him whole.  
  
*  
  
_“So?” Dalton asks McGuire, as soon as Amir passes out._  
  
_“I gave him a mild sedative. He’s exhausted.”_  
  
_He watches him sleep for a moment, before turning to Dalton. He lets out a whistle when he sees the shiner which started spreading under his eye._  
  
_“He got you good. You should ice that.”_  
  
_“It’s okay. I don’t think he recognized us.”_  
  
_“He still doesn’t. Concussion is my best guess.”_  
  
_“Shouldn’t he be…” Top hesitates. “Under observation?”_  
  
_“If he was conscious enough to get out of the hospital and give you a hard time, he should be fine.”_  
  
_“Very reassuring, doc.”_  
  
*  
  
“You really don’t remember your name?” they repeat, as if they don’t believe him entirely.  
  
The four members of their little team – his team – introduced themselves earlier, rather awkwardly. He feels like he can trust them now, but he’s still not sure how much. They explained what happened. The market, the bomb, the second device, the explosion. He can picture it all in his mind, but it feels like a scene from a bad movie, not something that actually happened to him.  
  
“My name…” he hesitates. “Is it…”  
  
They are all suspended to his lips, hopeful and relieved some memories are starting to come back to him.  
  
“Hamid Khedani?” he tries.  
  
As soon as he pronounced the name, he knows it’s not the right answer. They all make a face, and the girl stomps and turns around, her fists curled at her sides. Jaz, he corrects, Jasmine. She doesn’t seem to like him very much.  
  
“She doesn’t like Khedani,” the doc says, “but she likes you.”  
  
That’s weird, he thinks. Knowing that people like you, without knowing who you are. He frowns and tries to pick at the gauze on his right hand. Second degree burn, McG told him. Not too extensive, no sign of infection.  
  
“Give it time,” McGuire says. “Get some rest,” he adds, even though he feels like he’s done nothing but sleep since the hospital.  
  
A pat on the shoulder, then he’s alone again.  
  
*  
  
When he wakes up once again, his stomach is rumbling and he can smell overcooked bacon and eggs. Memories stir; there is a sense of familiarity in that smell. They’re not “home”, but it smells like it anyway.  
  
He makes his way to what currently serves as a kitchen. Electric plates on crates and an extension cord sneaking all the way to a generator in the back. He can feel their eyes on him as he takes a seat on one of the folding chairs nearby. They want to ask if he remembers, but no one seems up to the task.  
  
“Sorry I couldn’t cook _shakshuka_ this morning,” he says with a sheepish smile.  
  
“Top, he remembers the ‘shakakan’!” McGuire all but shouts.  
  
Amir winces, at the volume and at the poor pronunciation, but his smile widens nevertheless.  
  
“So, you’re back? No more answering in Arabic and thinking you’re an ISIS operator?”  
  
“I’m back,” he confirms, even though his head still feels airy and his more recent memories are all jumbled. “I don’t recommend getting a concussion while undercover,” he adds as a joke, but no one is laughing.  
  
*  
  
Later, back at the base in Turkey, they all ambush him one evening, to give him a small box as a present. He opens it to find dog tags. He is taking them out of the box when they all start snickering.  
On the back, engraved in neat little characters, he can read “Amir Al-Raisani. If lost, return to Top.”  
  
“I asked Preach to make them,” Dalton explains. “We wouldn’t want to lose you.”  
  
And even though it’s a joke, it means so much that all he can say is, “Thank you.” (For finding him, for not giving up on him, for letting him be part of the team.)


End file.
